


Nyctophilia

by whiskeyandspite



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blindfolds, Consensual Non-Consent, Consensual Possession, Damen isn't much better, First Meetings, Kink, Laurent is a shit, M/M, Masks, Sarcasm, Sex, Sex Clubs, The hellfire club - Freeform, elements of BDSM, secrecy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-03 01:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6591661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Laurent is prepared for it most days, mind carefully assigned an entirely different plane and place to rest in while his smile skims his lips and his fingertips follow. While he pretends to listen and let just enough into his conscious mind to keep up conversation without threat of his boredom being discovered. </i>
</p><p>Laurent is an ambassador to Vere. Proud, young, bored and lovely, he flits between Vere and Patras on official business when he's called upon. Officially, he is a princeling of note and subtle rumour. Unofficially, he goes to Patras for far more exciting things than state dinners.</p><p>An AU where Auguste lives, Laurent finds his joy in underground Hellfire Clubs, and Damen... well. Damen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinneykid3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneykid3/gifts).



> My second ever fic for this Fandom!
> 
> Written for a very good friend with surprises in store. I hope whoever reads this enjoys it. Please let me know if I skipped any important tags that are pertinent - more will be added as chapters are so keep a watchful eye!

Tedium. Most days more frightening than any threat of war or skirmishes in the outer regions. Tedium of the same faces and the same names, polite customs and deliberately organized feasts and functions.

Laurent is prepared for it most days, mind carefully assigned an entirely different plane and place to rest in while his smile skims his lips and his fingertips follow. While he pretends to listen and let just enough into his conscious mind to keep up conversation without threat of his boredom being discovered. 

He supposes most ambassadors, after a few years, feel that creeping on like lichen on rock.

In truth, Patras is an entirely agreeable place. The customs differ from Vere enough that Laurent finds himself constantly seeking to discover new ones, asking questions of his peers and other representatives when he cannot fathom a reason behind them himself.

Slaves are different here, hardly the gaudy and painted things of Vere. They don't walk freely, but they get more enjoyment from their submission and service than most pets from their master or mistress’ wealth. The slaves, Laurent spends a lot of time watching. He tilts his head to follow the tilt of a pitcher a young girl holds, the wine pouring from it rich and dark as blood. He blinks and the flow ceases, and she moves away with a gentle bow to serve someone else the same refreshment.

Laurent needn’t concentrate to know that the softly murmured lewd allusions around him are about her.

She is pretty, truly, delicate and dark-skinned, with copper eyes and long braided hair. She wears no makeup and a cloth so thin around her body it could not possibly be called clothes. Gold cuffs. A gold collar. There is one ring in her ear suggesting she is owned by someone exclusively, leased for the evening to serve and smile before returning where she knows she’s needed most.

Torveld’s slave has a similar ring.

Torveld’s slave who kneels beside the older man’s chair on a cushion as a pup would for his master, eyes glazed in pleasure as ringed fingers caress the warm honey curls on his head. A slave sent from Akielos, Torveld had told him, an offering of peace between cultures who share appreciation for well-trained slaves and the full power of unadorned beauty.

“Sex buys peace as easily as it ignites war,” Laurent had replied, smiling. “How intriguing,”

“It is one of humanity’s only universal languages,” Torveld offered back.

Laurent can’t argue that, and shan’t. He need only wait the few hours til evening time, a few more til the ambassadors can leave the ceremonies without fear or threat of offense. The morning will bring a late breakfast after late revelings, and simpler discussions of policy in the slowly warming air.

For now, there is dancing and music, casual conversation and the occasional burst of uproarious laughter. Laurent considers, absently, how different such celebrations are in Vere. He attends, of course, spending most of his time in conference with Auguste on topics that could be overheard yet shouldn’t be in polite society, but he rarely enjoys them as much as he does these, when he’s away. Perhaps it’s the lack of adornment, the lack of _show_ that Vere is so infamous for.

Simplicity is most effective, after all, as silence is in conversation.

Laurent calls over another slave with a gentle lifting of his fingers, and the young man approaches and kneels before him, obedient.

“Do you have leave to stay a while?” He asks, the implication that it is less a question and more a command clear through the tilt of his words. The young man inclines his head.

“This slave is yours, sir, in whatever capacity this slave can serve,”

“I wish to be entertained a while,” Laurent continues lazily. “Fed grapes, perhaps, conversed with.”

The young man blinks, eyes wide. Laurent notices that one is slightly different in color to the other. He makes a note to find out the boy’s name from Torveld later.

“Sir wishes for this slave to speak with him?”

“You can, can’t you?” The princeling asks, brow raised and elegant fingers pressed to his temples in apparent contemplation. “Or is that mouth useful only in serving?”

The blush is lovely. It darkens his tan skin a deeper shade and Laurent allows his eyes to travel to the boy’s ear, seeking for a ring.

There is none.

“Sir may use this slave’s mouth in any way he sees fit,” the boy replies after a moment of hesitation. “It would be this slave’s honor.”

What can Laurent do but smile? Were this Vere, he would have the boy before him, between his legs, lips spread wide and eyes upheld as he took Laurent deep into his throat. Were this Vere, he would bend, after, to be taken in the public eye, just because the princeling would want it. Were this Vere…

“Grapes,” Laurent repeats. “And more water. Bring a pillow when you return, I have use for you on your knees, and they needn’t get hurt in the process.”

The slave’s eyes light up and he bites his lip before prostrating himself before the pale and regal thing that commands him.

“This slave obeys with great joy,”

“Go, then,” Laurent tells him, amusement curling his lips. He tilts his head to watch the boy go, pleased when he does not break his composure of carriage, even in his rush to obey everything Laurent has asked of him.

“Ariston lives up to his name,” Torveld comments, bringing his cup to his lips and raising a brow when Laurent looks askance. “Despite the Aikelon inflection of it, he is of Patras. One of the best houses. It’s served the royal family for generations, they give forth the finest slaves.”

“He’s unclaimed,” Laurent points out. Torveld just smiles.

“He needn’t remain unclaimed.”

Laurent snorts and draws a knee up against the chair, turning in it to regard his friend, elbow against the arm of his chair, chin poised on top of elegantly curled fingers. “You tempt me with exquisite things, Torveld.”

“And I have yet to see you succumb to temptation,” the other points out, amused. “So infamous in your own court, yet here you act as well as one would in a schoolhouse. Are you afraid I will think less of you, seeing you as you truly are?”

“I think you are pushing at your own desires,” Laurent purrs. “Aching to see them enacted on another, if not on you. I’ve known you many years, my friend, I know your mind.”

“And you reveal none of yours,” Torveld feigns upset, licking his lips as he sets his cup aside and his slave immediately rises on his knees to get the pitcher to refill it for him. Both Torveld and Laurent watch him, the young boy smiling gently when he completes his task before falling to basking bliss once more when Torveld’s hand finds his hair and caresses it once more.

A pet without the filthiness that comes with it.

Presently, Ariston returns bearing everything Laurent had asked of him, pouring him water first, setting the cushion to the floor and kneeling upon it to rest the plate with grapes upon his upturned hands. Laurent can feel Torveld watching him, amused to see what his friend will make of the eagerness of the young slave. In answer, the princeling leans forward and parts his lips, expectant, before Ariston where he kneels.

The slave nearly collapses in his shock.

A moment passes, another, before he gingerly reaches for a grape, green and fat with juice, and presses it between perfect lips for the prince to eat.

“Do you not feed your masters?” Laurent asks, having swallowed. Ariston shakes his head and hoods his eyes in deference. 

“This slave does as he is told, sir,” he replies. “But rarely is he asked such an honor as to feed his master.”

“I suppose you had better get used to it then,” Laurent tells him, once more parting his lips to be fed, to the delight of his friend behind him, and the lovely torrid blush of the slave before him. “I shall enjoy you feeding me many things before the night is through.”

Despite initial hesitation, Ariston learns quickly Laurent’s desires of him at the gathering. He is obedient and quiet, humble and quick to take unspoken hints. Once the grapes are gone, he takes careful position on all fours for Laurent to rest his crossed feet against his back, shivering in pleasure when his praise is given with a gentle hand through his hair and nails against his scalp. Laurent almost laments that he cannot take him back to Vere. Once every three months, when he visits Patras, he will seek the boy out and use him, but he won’t burden him with a ring.

A slave without a master to serve, in this culture, is a flower waiting to wilt. They seek to submit, here, like they seek sustenance.

By evening’s close, Ariston is trembling where he remains on all fours, and most of the slaves wait gathered to clean up the remains of the party they had so dutifully attended to. Laurent grants his boy relief, resting a hand beneath his chin and offering a word of praise that sends the younger man shivering and prostrating himself in delight. Torveld lifts a brow to his friend but Laurent shakes his head.

He has other plans for the night.

\---

Patras, in its layout, is as many of the Eastern cities Laurent has visited. Ver-Tan, for all its wilderness, has similar architecture and well tended roads. It is not as Vere, where streets twist and mingle like a spider’s web, but it is a layout of corners and angles, small gardens and white fountains. This far south, the influence of its border nation is clear.

Laurent takes his time pacing the city, he needn’t hurry. Above, stars spread as scattered flour on marble, bright and smeared, colors coming through that one would guess was a trick of the eyes only, nothing more. There is no curfew here, but few people are on the streets. Once in a while a child will run across Laurent’s path, on his way with a cup or a bucket to the fountain nearby. Sometimes a dog will howl, but the origin of the lonesome sound is unclear.

He knows he has reached his destination when all around there is nothing at all. Buildings cluster together as anywhere else, yet there is little sound here beyond his own heartbeat pulsing softly in his ears. It is as though, with its very nature, the place has a silent radius which people do not dare enter. Those that do, know why they do. Those that stumble across it find themselves quickly leaving without being able to give a reason as to their hurry to do so.

The door is heavy wood and peeling paint, a color that once would have been a bright crimson now seems in the lights of the stars a heavy dirty maroon. Laurent pushes it open and lets it close behind, its own weight yielding the click of the catch once more. Inside it is, as always, a beat above silence. There is a hum that comes through the walls that otherwise contain all sound, there is an anticipation that is almost a sound in itself.

In the silent lobby of what once was someone’s grand home, Laurent allows his eyes to adjust to the dim red glow of a single oil lamp, hung dark with scarves. There is never anyone within, because there is a specific timing to entry, a rhythm that is almost a heartbeat in itself that those who frequent the place learn as their own. 

Around the room stand alcoves, things that would once have housed glorious ornaments, vases and statues and instruments. Now, each is discreetly furnished with a ornamented wooden trunk, a small hanger, a heavy rail upon which hang curtains of indeterminate color. Once closed, no one may enter within but the person who closed them.

In his time coming here, Laurent has never seen that rule broken.

Laurent seeks for an empty alcove, and within it undresses. He’d counted sixteen occupied before finding his own, several with more than one person’s shoes stationed beneath the curtain. He thinks, briefly, of Ariston, left behind at the palace to clean up and prepare for the morning meal with the other slaves. He thinks, briefly, of how beautiful he would look here, away from propriety and the very concept of inhibition.

String by string, the stoic prince comes apart. As every inch of rich blue peels away from his skin, Laurent finds himself smiling. It is easier, here. Perhaps because the very idea of this place is so close to those of his own court. Perhaps because once he enters the room beyond the heavy double doors, no one will know him at all. Here, he is not Laurent, ambassador of Vere, here he is not a princeling, here, he is a man who wants, and man who will take.

Piece by piece his clothes are laid aside in the heavy trunk. Every piece of jewelry he wears is locked away. He stands bare, for a moment, as the day he was born. Nothing but his scars to clothe him. He bends, toes pressed to the cool stone floor, and reaches within the trunk for the little box that is present in all of them. Right at the back, a design carved into the light wood, it contains within a mask, and his only identity beyond the curtain.

Tonight, he will be clothed in a mask of iron filigree, delicate as lace. Indeterminate patterns weave across it, rivers and flowers and creatures unknown. They make themselves clearer the more he looks; two birds will rest regal on either side of his temples, when he wears it, peacocks in polished black and silver whose wings join at his forehead to create a burst of coiling smoke that will slip into his hair and hold it back. Similar coils continue to the eyes, around which they flick and writhe before covering his cheeks and dripping jewels of silver and white to his jaw. His nose alone will remain unmasked by the creation, the pattern allowing the straight center bridge of it to remain innocently revealed, the opposite of a helm.

His lips, as always, will be his own to use.

Laurent smiles. He has not worn this one before, but he has seen it worn. He wonders if he will become the man who had owned it before him. He wonders if the two birds will rage in his soul as they had in the other’s, cruel and kind, innocent and debauched, until one stifled the other and paraded its victory across his features.

He will see.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You wear your scars like silks,” Laurent tells him._
> 
>  
> 
> _"Should I wear them as cuffs instead?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please point out and forgive any mistakes. No beta (as of yet, anyone interested?) and a bit of a frantic week for me. Please enjoy!

Down a small corridor and through an entirely insignificant door, Laurent makes his way. Ignoring the doorman as is custom, he takes only one of the two objects offered him on a silver tray and moves further into what once was the grand ballroom of the household.

Within, several dozen men mingle. Some are already deep in conversation, others merely watch, drawing their fingers over the rings they have, or the collars they have chosen as they seek with masked eyes for someone to approach. 

Laurent considers the ring in his own hand; dominance, this evening, by choice. It’s rare he feels the urge for it, but insatiable when it overcomes him. Tonight he will not seek for conversation and sweet wine on the drinking couches. No, tonight he will seek for a collared creature that begs to be broken, and take him.

He can feel eyes on him immediately, the disappointed gazes of those who, too, wear rings, the soft caresses of seeking submissives, the envy and the spite, the ache and curiosity. It’s intoxicating. It’s what has had him return to the club more and more on every visit, sometimes making several more a year than necessary - claiming they are to see his friend, to keep suspicion away. Though, in truth, he doubts the reveal of this particularly scandalous hobby would do much to tarnish an already infamous reputation. He’s fairly certain the men he meets here could guess at who he is, his skin so pale and hair like spun gold, absolutely nothing like the lovely wily things that permanently keep residence in Patras.

Laurent sets his lips to his ring and makes his way across the cold marble floor at a languid pace. No one will stop or waylay him, as they would were he in a collar this evening, no one will question his choice, unless the collared thing he selects already has a suitor for the night.

Unless, of course, the suitor is willing to share.

No. Tonight Laurent isn’t in a sharing mood. Tonight he wants someone beneath him, breath shuddering and lips parted, eyes wide behind the filigree of a mask and sounds too pure to be heard by anyone else. Tonight he wishes to possess.

To the side, there is a soft hum of music. Something carried through the wide maw of a gramophone, tinny, tantalizing. Were Laurent to follow the sound he is certain others would come through from beneath it. To the other side comes a plaintive wail and a soothing hush, and Laurent bites his ring a little harder in pleasured anticipation. Around and before him, mill a myriad of specimens of masculine beauty for every taste. Some taller than he, others wider. Some broader and heavier, some slighter still, barely out of boyhood. He knows that within the maze of the club home, there are rooms that contain boys as young as some of the pets in Vere. He knows, too, where to go not to find them.

Someone reaches out, a hand wide and perfumed and darker than his own, and Laurent considers it, following the knotted muscle to the curve of his shoulder and up to his throat. The man is not collared, though he is well worth the pause Laurent takes to examine him. A soldier, he would wager, and not from Patras. His mask is almost as a smear of ink across his face, covering his eyes and little else. He has a scar bisecting his lip, a crooked smile.

Laurent tilts his chin in question, releases the ring from between his lips to press his fingers there instead, showing the symbol of his status here more clearly, should the warrior have gotten the wrong idea. The man’s smile spreads wider still, and though he inclines his head in acknowledgement he steps nearer anyway and sets his fingers beneath Laurent’s chin. The princeling narrows his eyes, holds his composure. It’s not unknown for status to be questioned on occasion, proven on most. He sets his shoulders and tightens his jaw, but instead, Laurent finds to his surprise that the man shakes his head and, with a gentle guidance, turns Laurent’s face towards the door.

A man enters much like the one still gently holding him: dark-skinned and broad, tall and beautifully sculpted. He wears a mask of filigree gold that curves over his face as a helm would for war. White jewels bring light to his dark eyes, the gold sets highlights into his raven hair. He, unlike his compatriot, wears a thin gold band around his throat, a dew-drop mirroring the jewels upon his mask hanging between sharply prominent collarbones.

Laurent swallows.

The hand holding him allows one final gentle caress against his throat before letting him free to seek his toy for the evening.

Laurent makes no secret of his choice, he makes no effort to appear coy or hesitant. His stride is sure and quiet and any approach to the soldier who patiently waits, lips pressed into an amused frown, is met with narrowed eyes and a haughty flick of Laurent’s hair from his face. This one is his. This one is claimed. He has as little choice in the matter as Laurent does.

The soldier could carry Laurent off beneath one arm without even putting in effort, if he so chose. Perhaps beyond these doors he would, if they ever met again. But right now he stands proud, he stands tall, and he watches Laurent with narrowed eyes behind the gold coils of his mask. Laurent wants to see him bend, he wants to see those strong shoulders tremble and his muscles pull taut, he wants to see those lips spread and his teeth bared and his eyes wide and darker than they already are.

He wants to paint his back with stripes and run his lips over the welts after.

God, three months is certainly a long time to stay away.

Laurent doesn’t gesture, he doesn’t speak, he keeps his eyes on the soldier and then he turns away, expecting the man to follow. He walks towards the music he had ignored earlier, he follows its sound and lets it fade away once more as he passes that room and seeks for another, The protocol here is simple: if a door is closed, it will remain so until the occupants open it themselves or someone is invited inside. If a door is open, it may be occupied by anyone who comes across it.

Every room has its own perks and its own toys, none are the same. And as every mask changes every night for every man, so every room remains a mystery until someone is led inside.

The one Laurent selects has light walls and hanging torches. The bed is silk-covered and wide, a mirror rests across from it and reflects the entire space. There are coils of leather and flat paddles, a decanter of wine on a small table and two cups ready to receive it. Laurent waits for the door to close behind the soldier before turning to regard him over his shoulder, allowing his eyes to take in his form now that no one else will interrupt with their attention.

He stands as tall and broad and proud as he did outside, but there is a tilt to his chin, now that they’re alone, that suggests something regal. Laurent knows the way that position arches his back, he knows the way it straightens his shoulders and strengthens his resolve, he knows the way it draws all eyes to his face, not his form.

This man, whoever he is, is not merely a soldier.

Laurent finds this entirely delightful.

The princeling adjusts the position of his own body, without turning around; shoulders loose, spine curved and hips cocked. He tilts his chin as the soldier does and waits. There is a tension, unspoken and trembling between them like a tether. They size each other up with no more than a preening adjustment to their postures, both proud, both willing to push the boundaries of their respective ornaments for the night.

Laurent wonders if it’s clear how often he finds himself in a collar.

He wonders how frequently the soldier dons a ring.

After a moment more, Laurent turns and takes the steps needed to stand before the soldier. He lifts his chin and his eyes, carefully hooding them to gaze down on the man who stands taller than him - practiced enough to manage it admirably. His lips tilt just enough to suggest a smile, with the rest of his face hidden by elegant iron. Pale fingers come up and ghost against the plump lips that don’t yet part for him. The man is strong, that much is clear. He is a leader in whatever capacity his culture deems traditional. But he is also a man of honor and respect; he would not renege the symbol at his throat for pride.

A breath, another, and he parts his lips obediently for Laurent to touch.

The princeling pushes to his toes and sighs against them, his fingers stopping the two of them from kissing just yet. He studies the man from up close, the way his eyes narrow and wrinkle at the corners when he tries to hide his pleasure, the way they darken and widen as his pupils fill the irises. His breath smells of cinnamon.

Staying as carefully poised on his toes, Laurents lets his fingers and his eyes seek lower over the built form before him, down his lightly stubbled jaw to his throat, pale in parts where Laurent is certain a himation must sit for formal meetings. 

From further south, then. How curious.

Upon the soldier’s chest Laurent finds his first jewel: a scar that runs long a deep from over his collarbone, above the hollow and seemingly through it - as the bone remains intact - to the tight pectoral beneath. Laurent spreads his pale fingers against it, marvelling at the difference in tone between their skin. Even the scar - old enough now to be smooth to the touch and cause minimal discomfort when touched - is darker than the skin on Laurent’s knuckles and fingertips. As a specimen, this man is extraordinary. Laurent can feel himself respond to him and takes pleasure in the sensation of shivering blood beneath his skin.

He settles to his heels again, bringing his other hand up and drawing the cool jewel of his ring down the path the scar takes.

“You wear your scars like silks,” Laurent tells him, speaking the native language here. It is custom, in houses such as this, to employ the national dialect when possible, or not speak at all. They find ways, those that haven’t the words to express themselves. Laurent lifts his eyes and seeks beneath the golden helm of the other’s mask for a response.

“Should I wear them as cuffs instead?” The man replies at length. His words are accented but fluent - the language learned from youth. Laurent tries to catch at the smoother fricatives and elegant turning of vowels but can’t quite place him. Not yet. There is no rhotic turn as there would be in Patras, no guttural sounds as up in the hill-villages that border Vask. Further south, perhaps.

Laurent cocks his head in answer. “I suppose it depends how proudly you wear your cuffs, when they’re given to you. Shall we see?”

“Would you cuff me for your protection or pleasure?”

“I hardly see the need to protect myself here,” Laurent counters, stepping around the man and seeking on the wall for appropriate implements. “And your size is hardly intimidating to me.”

“Already a cruel master, and I’ve done nothing to deserve it,” the soldier points out, and Laurent can’t help but grin. There is a warmth to the man’s words without being cloying. He isn’t playing into Laurent’s hand so much as offering his own. A mutual dictating of a night filled with unspoken pleasures. Very, very welcome.

“I never claimed it worthless,” Laurent replies. “Merely uninspiring.”

“Do you wish me to inspire you?”

“Could you inspire yourself for me?”

The soldier clicks his tongue and Laurent has to turn to watch. He stands as he was left, not turning, not touching or adjusting his position at all, but there is a haughty and lovely way he holds himself that speaks to Laurent in a way he can’t possibly describe. He has terribly varied tastes, wonderfully diverse experiences, and yet one that always tightens his throat and belly that he can never quite play out.

Perhaps here -

Perhaps with another such as him?

“Do you have limits?” Laurent asks him.

“Every man does.”

“May I mark you?”

“Will the mark be read as claim by others?”

“Only here.”

There is a pause, a huff of a breath, and the soldier tenses his shoulders before releasing them. “Then mark, if you don’t fear my picking a ring next time and seeking you again.”

“I fear very little,” Laurent tells him softly, finding a heavy leather strap against the wall by the torch and fingering it softly. “Perhaps you can inspire that in me too. But not tonight.”

“What can I inspire tonight, then, my lord?” The soldier asks, and for a moment, Laurent stops moving. He holds his breath and feels his heart beat, he listens to the humming of the blood behind his ears. He grows hard from the word alone, said by someone who is used to that title being bestowed upon him instead.

More and more curious by the moment, this soldier becomes. More and more a welcome evening distraction.

“Fantasies,” he whispers. “Unsavory acts.” He takes down the strap and doesn’t seek further for cuffs to hold the soldier down. If he so tells him, the man will hold himself by willpower alone, and that in itself will be worth than any form or restraint the place can provide. He steps near enough to nose against the man’s shoulder, over his smooth skin. Laurent parts his lips and bites, just once, a nip in warning and pleasurable foreshadowing.

“A mark?”

“Not yet,” Laurent whispers, drawing the tip of his nose down the man’s spine next, parting his lips to draw his tongue against the dip of his lower back, up higher again against his side, tickling between visible ribs. He skims and draws against him, silent but for the puffs of breath that grows ever more irregular. More and more gentle kitten licks of pleasure, soft sighs and tickling traces of skin. Beneath Laurent’s mouth, the soldier tenses and relaxes, fists his hands and releases them. And when Laurent steps back, just enough to land the first sharp strike of the strap against brown skin where his tongue first touched his soldier, the man moans, already brought so sensitively to awareness.

“Now, perhaps,” Laurent tells him, drawing another wet kiss against his side as the strap lands elsewhere, painting pink the still-damp path his tongue had drawn. “If you hold still.”

Another sound of pained delight and the soldier hangs his head, his hands clench harder, his body trembles, comes alight with every offering of gentleness and cruelty juxtaposed together. He holds still, because Laurent does not ask him again. He takes the marks the princeling leaves on him where moments before soft lips had touched. He pants his obedience, his fortitude, his pride to the room itself and by the time Laurent returns to suck away the heat of pain against him, the soldier would bend for him in a breath.

And he does, with just a touch of the strap to the backs of his knees.

“Good boy,” Laurent whispers, grasping dark curls to bend the soldier’s head back and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Now we can play properly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may not have C S Pacat's ability to drag out UST for 2.5 books but I can certainly do it for a few chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Torveld may well get his wish that Laurent accepts his offer to stay, but perhaps not for the reasons the prince thinks._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _No matter._
> 
>  
> 
> _What are reasons but excuses spoken politely?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles* UST for all of you. This may end up being longer than I initially planned, so all y'all have to deal with my poor attempt at UST and introducing new characters into the mix.
> 
> Imagine Ariston a very tanned version of Ben Whishaw.

The morning dawns cool and unwelcome, and Laurent finds himself groaning into the pillow as he seeks with clumsy hands for the blankets to cover his head from the sun. He can’t remember getting back the night before. Or this morning. Most likely this morning. He can’t remember much beyond what the pull of his muscles suggest happened. With a smile, Laurent attempts once more to settle into muddled slumber.

He is unsure if he dreams the door opening or if it really happens. He is unsure why his heart immediately begins to hammer in his chest. Had he not made it home? Had his addled mind driven him to believe so while he still slumbered in an unknown bed with an unknown man? Surely he hasn’t wrecked his reputation so badly that he now _sleeps_ with the men he finds at the club? Surely he’s not sunk so low.

His curse is certainly spoken, though, certainly heard, and there is a slight relief when the gasp he gets in reply is far too innocent to be something his mind would conjure.

Almost a pity, too, that it’s not one he had wanted to hear.

“I’m sorry,” the voice is familiar. “This slave did not realize the master was still in slumber.”

Ariston, Laurent remembers, here by Torveld’s command, no doubt. Sly bastard.

“You needn’t kneel,” Laurent mumbles. “I can’t see you prostrate yourself anyway. Why are you here?”

There is a shuffle as Ariston considers standing, and doesn’t risk the displeasure in case Laurent looks out from beneath the sheets and sees him standing freely. The prince would laugh if he had the energy or desire to. Right this moment, the boy is a nuisance rather than a pleasure.

“My lord, his grace prince Torveld is receiving his guests in the main ballroom for breakfast and a morning walk, he asked me to fetch you, should you have forgotten.”

Laurent mumbles something in Veretian he almost hopes the slave understands before pushing himself up into a languid stretch in bed. The last thing he wants is to go down to act polite in front of men he has little care for. He would rather spend his hours in bed, reliving his activities from the night before, committing the body of the man he had so thoroughly ravished to his memory.

“He knows me well, your prince,” Laurent says after a while, sitting up and allowing the sheets to fall from him, pooling at his bare hips as he rolls his shoulders. “What did he ask of you, when he sent you here?”

Ariston hesitates in his reply. Laurent turns to regard him over his shoulder. For a moment, his iron mask is against his skin again. For a moment, he sees again the soldier on his knees before him.

For a moment. 

“Will you have me tell him you refused to answer me?” Laurent coaxes. Ariston gasps a breath and holds it.

“He asked for this slave to wake you, my lord,”

“How?”

“By any means necessary,” Ariston admits. “Using my utmost gentleness.”

Laurent’s smile is downright predatory. “Wily and tempting and pretty,” Laurent sighs, slipping his legs to the thick rug beneath his bed and standing, bare, in front of the stave who remains bent in a bow before him. “He does know me well. Look at me.”

Ariston does, his blush warm beneath golden skin.

“I will have you dress me,” Laurent decides. “I’ll have you tell me of your night before you were permitted to retire.”

“This slave would be glad,”

“Get up.”

Ariston does, hands before him, gently clasped, and head ducked though his eyes remain on Laurent, who hasn’t yet told him he could look away. He is very pleasing, this boy, with his two-tone eyes and gentle features. Laurent is almost certain that were he to push the kid properly he would be perfectly mouthy. Perhaps under influence of drink, or as part of a game where Ariston still gets to serve, as a reward.

“That, there,” Laurent tells him, vaguely gesturing towards the heavy trunk he had traveled with. “White silk first.”

Ariston goes.

“Do you remember what else I asked of you?” Laurent says to his back, smiling when the younger man’s shoulders tense gently as though he’s been reprimanded. “You may begin.”

“I -” Ariston bends to reach within the trunk for Laurent’s requested item. The silk is so fine it is almost translucent, and the slave is careful not to touch it more than he must before he turns back to the man who is his master, here, until he is dismissed. 

His eyes speak of his hesitation. Surely the princeling does not wish to hear of common things? Surely he wants merely to humiliate the slave before him and amuse himself and others later with stories of the man’s blind obedience. Surely there is something more to this than the want for one-sided conversation.

Perhaps the prince is drunk, still, from his night time revelling.

But humiliation is nothing to disobedience. Ariston would take any and all, before the court and his training master, rather than disobey a direct order. He swallows and gently gathers the fabric against his palm, fingers carefully holding it as he offers it to Laurent to duck his head into.

“This slave was tasked with overseeing the rearrangement of the furniture, once the guests had retired for the evening.”

“That must have been riveting,” Laurent replies with a sigh, slipping his arms into the shirt and standing straight to let the fabric fall down to his hips. The front is unlaced, and the slave steps near to see to that for him. “Do you suppose it was because of how quickly you took to being a footstool? Torveld does have a horrid sense of humor.”

The slave’s eyes widen but he doesn’t lift them. His fingers, gentle and clean and soft, work the intricate lacing in Vere’s style, and Laurent must admit he is impressed. Perhaps there is something to be said for keeping a slave in Patras for his visits. He would not put it past Torveld to have had the boy trained specifically for him, before feigning ignorance the night Laurent laid eyes on the slave.

Truly, Laurent would need to find something to gift the prince in turn, if that were the case.

“The prince has been very kind to this slave,” Ariston replies carefully. “As has his master, the evening before and now, here.”

“Pants,” Laurent lazily directs him, running a hand through his hair to tug knots out of it and to get it off his face. “Silk. Heavier.” He watches Ariston go with a soft bow to retrieve those next.

“After the supper-room had been restored, we were permitted our own supper,” Ariston continues. “It is always an honor to be able to eat what our masters enjoy. I would hazard to say the prince makes sure there is so much made that some is certain to be left for us. He is kind.”

“So you’ve said,”

“This slave cannot lie,” Ariston points out, and Laurent, raising an eyebrow, lifts one foot for Ariston to dress him. The slave sinks to his knees and proceeds to comply.

“You’ve opened up the floor for quite a game, you realize,” Laurent says, not making Ariston’s job any harder, but dropping a hand to hold on to him when he finds his balance stolen by a sweep of vertigo. He feels like he’s spinning on the spot, and for a moment the shoulder beneath his hand is not the thin, lithe thing of Ariston but the muscled, sweaty bulk of the soldier.

“My coat,” Laurent adds after a while, when the slave rightfully says nothing. “The blue, today. Trousers to match.”

Ariston makes to rise, but Laurent’s hand squeezes gently to suggest he needn’t, and the slave remains on his knees as he turns to crawl back towards the trunk and retrieve the items requested.

“If I were to put any question to you, you would not lie?” Laurent asks him, watching Ariston rise on his knees to get the trousers first, careful to keep them across his back and off the floor as he crawls back to begin with those.

“I cannot lie,” he repeats. “I would not and I shall not.”

“If I were to lash you, now, for spite alone, would you think it deserved?” Laurent asks him, allowing the pleasure of seeing the boy flush to run through him. The slave considers his predicament and bites his lip.

“If my master were to think -”

“I asked what you would think.”

“Rarely is this slave asked -”

“I am asking you now,” Laurent tells him firmly, setting an elegant hand to his hip. “If I were to punish you, now, for no other reason than it would please me to see you hurt, would you think it deserved?”

Ariston trembles a moment and then very slowly shakes his head. Laurent hums a note of pleasure before lifting a foot for Ariston to dress him again.

“I haven’t the energy,” the princeling tells him, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. “Someone had caught my attention for that before you.” He watches Ariston say nothing, and stands still for him to do up the lacing on his trousers. This suit needn’t a belt, so Laurent doesn’t direct the boy to get one. “Coat,” he reminds him.

“Why must Torveld demand people join him for breakfast?” Laurent muses after a moment more of silence as Ariston crawls away again to get the coat. He lifts his chin when the boy looks askance, and allows him to stand.

“Some ambassadors have arrived from the south,” Ariston explains quietly, unsure if the princeling wanted his question answered. He continues when he isn’t interrupted or struck for impertinence. “I believe Akielos had a festival end the morning prior, and could only send their party this morning.”

“Always impatient,” Laurent sighs, holding his hand out, wrist up, for Ariston to work the ties there, too. “Have you met them before?”

“This slave has only ever served at two official gatherings,” Ariston explains. “And this is the first at which this slave was permitted among the guests.”

“Was Torveld preparing you for me?” Laurent asks absently, meeting bright eyes with his own cool ones. The slave swallows carefully before slipping his eyes to half mast in a silent nod. “You may do the other.” He holds his second wrist out just so. He says nothing regarding his friend, nothing regarding his plan. There had been talks between them of Laurent staying in Patras for longer than the official talks demanded, to learn the culture - officially - and become more knowledgeable as an ambassador of Vere for when he returns. Unofficially, Laurent is certain Torveld would teach him things that would delight the Veretian court, were they to learn of them too.

“How many delegates?”

“This slave was informed it is a party of four.”

“Four, perhaps, I can handle, if you pass me my blade,” Laurent sighs. He can’t quite hide the smile when Ariston looks to him immediately to see if the order was genuine. Not this time, perhaps. Not on neutral soil at peace talks in foreign land.

Laurent lifts his chin for the slave to work the lacing there next. “Not tight,” he warns. “Enough for a single knot to remain undone.” Ariston nods his understanding, bending his knees gently in what would otherwise be a bow.

“Does this slave remember all he hears?” Laurent asks him after a while. The delicate fingers pause at his throat where they work the last knot Laurent had permitted. “Does he listen carefully?”

“This slave will do as he is told,” Ariston replies, eyes up to Laurent once more. “While my lord prince has sent me to you, this slave is yours to do with as you please.”

Laurent moves, then, graceful and quick, to set his fingers beneath Ariston’s chin to hold it still. Mismatched eyes widen and warm breath pools against Laurent’s hand, but Ariston does not look away, nor does he plead or apologize. He merely waits.

Then Laurent lets him go.

“A pitcher of water,” he says. “My bed turned for the evening and you to wait upon me then.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Laurent barely looks at him as he passes him on his way to the door. Patras is quite a way for any Akielonian to merely stumble through. It is a land that requires rights to enter, rules of passage and parlay. One would not merely wander through on a whim. Under pretense of being received by the prince, some may come for much more interesting and worthwhile pursuits, as Laurent himself had. He will see the ambassadors, he will make nice. He will speak their language as he is able and he will learn where he is not. Torveld may well get his wish that Laurent accepts his offer to stay, but perhaps not for the reasons the prince thinks. 

No matter.

What are reasons but excuses spoken politely?


End file.
